One of those heavenly days that cannot die. - William Wordsworth

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure:
No fears to beat away - no strife to heal,
The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

My gentle Reader, I perceive / How patiently you’ve waited, / And now I fear that you expect / Some tale will be related. / O Reader! had you in your mind / Such stores as silent thought can bring, / O gentle Reader! you would find / A tale in every thing.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. — But there’s a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?